#swatch rot?

[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

Machine washed all my recent swatches. I should've taken a before photo for all of them but I forgor. Most of these have noticeable wrinkling which if I were more patient I would've controlled against. But at the end of the day if I'm going to make either a blanket or a sweater out of an machine dry-able yarn, I'm going to throw it in the dryer and live with whatever comes out.

Since I intend for this to be a master post for these swatches for me to refer back to, I'll update in a couple days with any that noticeably change gauge/get less wrinkled with relaxation. (Which I do expect, the "washed gauge" listed below should be taken with a grain of salt)

Willow Yarns Daily DK in Coffee (left), Willow Yarns Daily Worsted in Pomegranate (right)

Daily Dk swatch; 36 Stitches wide, US 6 (4.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 24 stitches by 33 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 24 stitches by 36 rows (per 4 inches)

Daily Worsted swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 7 (4.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 22 stitches by 29 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 22 stitches by 31 rows (per 4 inches)

Notes: These two value wools held up as expected to the washer/dryer. That is, not as well as Wool of the Andes Superwash (WotAS), but not Terribly. Putting WotAS through a cleaning cycle resulted in very little change in how the final product looked, there's a little pilling but the actual stitches are very clearly defined. With the Willow line, it's like the actual yarn is superwash (I'm able to unply the tails on these swatches fairly easily) but there's a halo around the yarn that is non superwash and thus felting. It doesn't seem to effect the actual fabric much, but it does make these swatches look more "aged" in comparison to the socks I knit out of WotAS even tho these swatches have only had one washer cycle and the socks have had multiple + wear. It's very possible that with a wool cycle washer/dryer, the surface felting would be less pronounced.

Premier Basix in Mahogany, Herrschners Supreme Worsted in Carmine

Premier Basix swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 18 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 18 stitches by 27 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; The name does not lie, basic as hell value acrylic. Didn't get incredibly softer in the wash and feels very "sturdy" for value acrylic. Good stitch definition tho.

Herrschners Supreme Worsted swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; Possibly the most accurate Caron Simply Soft dupe I've ever seen. If I didn't hate that yarn I would be more impressed. Good drape for a worsted acrylic and impressive stitch definition.

Herrschners 2-ply Classic Afghan in Almond, Herrschners Baby Wonder in Sandbox

Herrschners 2-ply Classic Afghan swatch; 40 Stitches wide, US 4 (3.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 26 stitches by 33 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 26 stitches by 36 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; This yarn is worse than the Herrschners Afghan yarn in practically every way. It was less pleasant to knit (had a plastic feel), less soft overall, and the scarring from wrinkles is far more pronounced. I would be less negative about this yarn if I didn't buy the superior version in the same lot but it is what it is.

Herrschners Baby Wonder swatch; 36 Stitches wide, US 6 (4.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 23 stitches by 30 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 23 stitches by 31 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; The tension change from stockinette to garter really fucked this swatch up, it's rolling up noticeably more than the other swatches. Other than that, this yarn is pretty uneventful? It's not particularly soft nor particularly not soft. It's not something I want to rub my face on but I could wear a garment made from it without issue. The wool blend plays well with the acrylic in this yarn and the stitch definition is nice at this gauge.

Lion Brand Pound of Love in Straw, Herrschners Worsted 8 in Espresso

Lion Brand Pound of Love swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 29 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; I do not like this yarn but I got it for extremely cheap so I decided to throw it into this swatch mix and it's still the same. Has a rough plasticy texture in comparison to the other value acrylics I tested here. My biggest problem with it continues to be how inconsistent the texture is within the same ball of yarn, in this single ball I've used it's gone from relatively soft to relatively rough and back.

Herrschners Worsted 8 swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 7 (4.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 26 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 28 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; I expected to utterly hate this yarn but I'm pleasantly surprised by it. The texture is Odd? I've not used a yarn that felt like this one for a very long time, it feels rather unenjoyable in the ball but knits up wayyy softer. I should've bought a lighter colour for this swatch since it's hard to tell the stitches from each other. I'll definitely consider using this yarn over my beloved Big Twist Value for blankets in the future.

Herrschners Afghan in Bing Cherry, Held Single (left) and Held Double (right)

Held Single swatch; 40 Stitches wide, US 4 (3.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 27 stitches by 35 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 27 stitches by 36 rows (per 4 inches)

Held Double swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 28 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 29 rows (per 4 inches)

Notes: The real winner of this whole swatching is Herrschners Afghan held single. There's nothing wrong with it held double really (other than the terrible wrinkle but alas that's my fault) but held single, this yarn has incredible drape, softness, and stitch definition. For a really long time I've really wanted to knit a thin v neck sweater to replace one I had a good decade ago, but I've not found a yarn that would be worth the cost (both currency and labor) to justify knitting a sweater in my size at such small gauge. But This yarn absolutely hits that mark. A few negatives; Mild sheen (personal dislike, tho it's not terrible in this yarn). Had the most knots of any of the yarns I tested (I believe there was 3 total, 2 in one ball, 1 in the other). Center pulling this yarn was NOT fun, had major yarn barf that really wanted to tangle in on itself for one of the balls and the yarn is so light and airy it was hard to untangle.

Herrschners Aran in Heather, Premier Anti Pilling Everyday in Walnut

Herrschners Aran swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 7 (4.5mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 20 stitches by 28 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; 20 stitches by 28 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; Terrible. yarn. The nicest thing I can say about it is that I like the colour and that it holds it's shape well. It feels like the world's scratchiest wool but clearly made out of plastic and broken dreams. I've never had an acrylic yarn make my hands itch before. The only thing I could realistically see using this yarn for is something like baskets/yarn bowls.

Premier Anti Pilling Everyday swatch; 30 Stitches wide, US 8 (5.0mm) needles Unwashed Gauge; 19 stitches by 25 rows (per 4 inches) Washed Gauge; stitches by 27 rows (per 4 inches) Notes; The other yarn that reminded me of Caron Simply Soft but not nearly as impressive as the Herrschners Supreme Worsted. It does feel more sturdy than the Supreme Worsted but is maybe half as soft with a much worse drape. The only way I would buy this yarn again is if it was dirt cheap, otherwise it doesn't bring anything to the table that other yarns don't but better (other than maybe being anti pilling, tho I've never had a real issue with pilling from my value acrylics).

[lightnersdream]

fucked uppp that i'll have been running my website for FIVE YEARS next year... and i still dont have most of the stuff i want up on there

[movedtodykedvonte]

you ask for prompts and I gotta say, I’d love to see the Big Angst of the eviction day scene

You will be both delighted and disappointed by this I suppose...

[froody]

Dudes get so mad when their ex wife keeps the house in the divorce. Like, I’m sorry. I’m sure you would have preferred living alone in a $350k house with a mortgage on your $50k salary. You know damn well you aren’t going to have primary custody of the kids or even pick them up for your scheduled weekends. You can’t wash your own ass much less clean and maintain a 40 year old 3 bedroom house on your own. Slink into your bachelor dungeon and stop whining. I hate this bullshit. It’s always the dudes who did nothing for the house in terms of decorating and renovating and upkeep who bitch about not getting it. “We built this house together 🥺.” She picked out all the paint swatches, countertops, furniture and appliances and you had a bitchfit when she made you help her replace a door.

My dad kept my childhood home in the divorce and you know what he did with it? NOTHINGGGGGG. The shutters have all rotted off the walls. The ceiling in the basement collapsed. He just replaced the 50 year old antique wool carpet with LAMINATE FLOORING because his stepkids finally destroyed it. 

[whyhellosims]

WHS-GhostlyArms

Happy Simblreen, my friends! Tonight's treat is just as you see it, two ghostly, glowing arms reaching from the ether!

Info and links beneath the cut:

There are two base game compatible packages, a right and a left hand. Each have the exact same swatches, so you can mix and match. There are three frame options: Black, gold, and silver. There are four different arm options: A glowing pale gray, a lavaform, a space theme, and a rotting/zombie one. Each arm has a variation of plain and bloody/gooey, so you can choose your level of ew. Yes, these do glow, but they are not lamps (sorry, I tried, it's above my pay grade). You can't size them up, sorry, but they are scaled to be the size of an actual sim's hand, so unless you're into ghostly titans, you shouldn't need to scale them up. You can find them under wall decorations, but if you're stumped, just search WHS and they should pop up!

More in-game shots:

TOU: No pay sites ever. This item is free always, no conditions, no a*fly links. If you use it and you want to credit me, I’d love to see your sims, so just tag me. 

If you like my work, please consider a reblog to spread the word? Got requests? Need specific recolors? Find a problem? Please feel free to send me an ask or a DM! I promise I don’t bite and I’m still learning, so I’m happy to help!

Thank you to:

@simblreenofficial

@mospookers

@mmfinds

@alwaysfreecc

Moar WHS CC

Here we goes!

Left Arm ➡ SFS Link / Google Drive

Right Arm ➡ SFS Link / Google Drive

[simsantoinc]

Pool Edge and Floor Recolors

The reupload of @shastakiss ' simlrbirthay pool party reminded me that I had recoloring Rosebine's pool edges and floors to match them rotting on my project list. There's 6 recolors of the edges and floors to match the slide recolors and shasta's purple one. I also edited the edge files to disable the outdoor shadows.

Meshes are included. All files are compressed with included swatch and preview. Swatch

Download | Alt

[toxintouch]

yk how in veres likes on his character sheet it says he like cooking (badly)…… WHY HAS NO ONE DONE A FIC ABOUT THAT YET‼️⁉️⁉️ THAT SHOULD NOTTT BE A WASTED OPPORTUNITY. i’m not even joking im ab to send this to so many people because i can’t let this go to waste 😞

Here u are anon!  For the record, you are completely free to send this prompt around wherever you’d like!  It was such a fun idea, I’d love to see more takes on it. ^^

Warnings: Vere talking Innuendos? Innuendos.  So many, and I don’t guarantee that they are funny lol.  Just a general silly vibe and imo: absolutely  tooth rotting fluff.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅SOUS CHEF ‧₊˚♡₊˚

You find yourself wandering through Lowtown during the lunch hour, trying to decide what sounds like a good meal.

Your mouth waters at the scents being carried on the breeze, a plethora of pleasant aromas wafting out of the eateries nestled inside the Amaryllis District, so fragrant that you can smell them all the way down on the bustling streets of Lowtown as long as you stay downwind.

However, if there’s one nice thing about knowing Leander it's that you also know you don’t have to go that far (or spend that much) for a delicious lunch. 

Near enough to the Wet Wick, there’s a series of side streets that make up an eclectic amalgamation of Lowtown and the Amaryllis District, and in it: a small and inconspicuous eatery.  The menu changes often, though you aren’t sure if that’s out of innovation or necessity, but the food is always filling and reasonably priced.

You follow the winding streets, getting lost for a brief moment before correcting your course, traveling until you see colorful chipped girih tiles and wide, clean windows.  You let yourself into the shop, the now familiar sound of hinges in need of an oiling welcoming you.  

There’s an assortment of goods on display–jars of honey and spiced fruit and loaves of braided bread with seeds–all kept safely locked away beneath an enchanted pane of glass.

Looking around, though, you don’t see anyone selling said fantastic wares.

You call out, expecting the shop keep or her wife to come running but instead you hear…silence.

Followed by a loud metallic clatter.

You freeze, unsure what to do, what the threat is–if there’s even a threat?–but before you can make up your mind, you’re greeted by a most unexpected sight.

Vere comes out of the kitchen area, his hair swept into an artfully stunning up-do that reveals the long line of his neck and clavicle, blemished only by the heavy collar locked around his throat. 

He’s wearing a weighty linen apron over his clothing, presumably to protect his outfit, though–his long gossamer sleeves are completely discordant with the notion, making you think that maybe the apron is more of an aesthetic choice.

“What’s this–?  A mouse?  In my kitchen?” Vere asks playfully as you continue to stare, dumbfounded.  He wields a spatula in his hand like a weapon–swatching it into his off-hand like a riding crop with a decisive snap.

“Where is–?”

“–The shop keep?  Wherever she pleases–the shop’s closed on Mondays.”

(You really don’t like the way he’s watching you…  Or the way he keeps inching closer…)

You take a step backwards, your eyes never leaving his.  “Oh,” you say, bandaged hands reaching blindly behind you.  “I didn’t realize.  The door was unlocked, so…”  You trail off.

You find the doorknob at last.  You attempt to turn it only to find that it won’t budge.

“Was it?”

Vere saunters up to you, tail swaying behind him.  You manage to tear your eyes away from his predator stare to search for possible exits, though you know for a fact you won’t be fast enough.   You look back and he’s already in your space, crowding you against the entryway.

(He smells really good, actually.  Like leather and spice and the subtle cling of perfume and incense.  And beneath that, something–earthy–animalistic, but in a way that’s intoxicating as opposed to unpleasant.)

“I was just about to make myself a snack–how nice that a snack came to me.”

“Stop playing around.” You try to steel yourself and inject the perfect amount of scolding into your voice while combating his heated stare.  “I know you’re just fucking with me to try and get a reaction; you and I both know you’re not going to eat me.” 

If he was, he would have done it by now.  Sometime within the weeks you’ve known him.  …Probably. 

Unless he just likes to play with his food.

“I didn’t realize you knew me so well,”  he says, looking amused.  “Perhaps I didn’t plan to, but now I simply can’t resist.  You look so absolutely delectable, how could I possibly contain myself?”

You don’t get the chance to reply.  Vere’s countenance changes suddenly–you watch his ears flatten a second before you hear the screaming whistle of a teapot.  His ears twitch in annoyance at the sound, his perfectly sculpted face showing a sour sneer.  He gives you a sideways glance, calculating.

“Then again.  I find myself in need of a sous chef.  Congratulations on your promotion.  Come along now.”  He hooks a finger into your cloak and pulls you easily into the kitchen.  (To be fair, you don’t struggle.  Anyone would want to see where this is going, right?)

He releases you once you’ve crossed over the threshold, waving his fingers uncaringly towards a second apron affixed to a hook on the wall as he beelines to remove a glass teapot from the stove and stifle the noise.  He moves quickly as you watch, casually throwing aside the spatula in his hand in favor of an ornate silver teaspoon.  He measures a vibrantly colored tea into the inlaid steeping container of the equally ornate teapot and takes a pleased inhale as the tea’s fragrance blooms, humming as he flips over a delicate hourglass to keep track of the steeping time.

There’s silence for a moment–

Him watching the teapot and you watching him.

“Well?”  He asks, without looking up.  You’ve seen this look before, you think – this pensive, almost lonesome look that makes your heart ache against all better judgment.  “Staying or going?”

He grins when you put on the apron.  You search his face for some sincerity, but he’s all sharp teeth and tall ears, covering any glimpses of deeper emotion with a sheen of smugness.  He circles you once you have the apron on, taking in the image.

“Mm, don’t you just look adorable.  Very domesticated.”

You’re pretty sure that the word he’s looking for is domestic. But of course, he knows what he said and he meant to say it.  You decide that he’s probably betting on your correction, already armed with a witty retort.  You smooth the apron down while pointedly looking away, deciding that you won’t give him the satisfaction.  You hear him chuckle.

Since you’re avoiding looking at Vere, you look around the kitchen for the first time.

It’s a spacious workspace–moreso than the storefront, even.  There’s a large iron stove unlike anything you’ve ever seen, covered with magical runes and dials, with a large hearth built into the belly of it.  A plethora of pots and pans have been placed on the burners, left to sizzle and pop in the red hot heat.  

Oil is singing from the heated, shallow basins but you don’t see anything cooking inside.  

There’s a slab of meat diced into neat squares and a heaping bowl of lumpy batter set to the side of the stove top.

“What are you making?”  You ask, trying to make sense of the scene.

“Panko crusted fish filet.  And there’s a pasta in the oven.  For dessert, I was thinking–” he gives you a sly look, one that makes your ears feel warm, “hmm, well.  I just had a much better idea in regards to dessert.”  He makes a show of licking his fangs, the movements of his tongue slow and sensual.

You think you tied your apron too tight; your airway is feeling a little constricted.  It seems to be getting worse the longer you watch.

You clear your throat, tearing your eyes away.  More ingredients, most partially prepared, and a host of dirtied pots and pans greet you.  You turn your back to him as you explore, fully engrossed in all of the views that the mess of a kitchen has to offer.  You’re almost afraid to ask: “So, what am I here to help with?”

“Oh?”  You don’t hear Vere come up next to you, but you feel him brushing up against you.  “Does my darling sous chef require…instruction?  A guiding hand, so to speak?”  You freeze, feeling his breath against your ear, shivers running down your spine at his light and teasing chuckle.

But then he’s breezing past you, making a wide dramatic gesture toward the large tome perched surreptitiously on the counter.  “Lucky for you, I’ve a recipe.”  His tail wags swishes elegantly behind him as he beams with pride.

His tail knocks the whisk out of the mystery batter beside the fish filet but he takes no notice.

Vere hops gracefully up onto the counter, reaching for the batter.  He does an impressive twist in order to grab hold of another whisk and you take the time to appreciate that.  Then, with Vere occupied and seemingly ignoring you, you take a look at the recipe book.  

The text is old and withered with the occasional dash of sprawling spidery script painting the margins.  (Said writing is utterly illegible–you’re actually not sure if it’s in a language you can read, though if you squint you think you can see something that looks like the word ‘cake’.)  The page it’s opened to is ripped in half, rendering precious steps of the recipe lost to time.  You spot a mysterious bite mark piercing through the corner of the leather cover.

And can’t stop yourself from surreptitiously glancing over at Vere.  He’s moved on from the batter (which looks as lumpy as it did a minute ago) and is now eating skewers of raw fish with his nails.

“You’re not supposed to eat while you cook,” you say, the time worn words out of your mouth before you can examine your personal stance on them.

“Says who?  Some limp dick?  No shame in indulging, pet.”

“You’re not even gonna have anything left to cook,” you warn.

“Hum, sounds like my sous chef should get to work covering them in batter instead of just standing there before I eat them all.”

You roll your eyes, but follow through with instructions.  The space is unfamiliar and your movements are slow and unsure with Vere looming over you from his perch on high, watching.

One of the pans of oil gives an ominous pop.  “Hmm, sounds like it’s hot enough,” says Vere.  “Move over.”

“Is that safe?”

“For me,” Vere says simply.  “And it’s faster.  Now stand further back or you'll get splattered–and not in the fun way.”  Idly, he tosses a batter covered filet into the shallow pan.  The resulting hiss makes you both cringe.

As if on queue, the hourglass for the tea gives a gentle chime, lighting up with a golden glow.  (You’re beginning to wonder how this humble shop can afford all these magical items, but then again this is the city of secrets.  You’re probably better off not knowing.)  Vere’s ears perk up, pleased.  He tosses the remaining fillets in the pan without a fuss, setting lids on top of each to contain the oil, acting as if doing so is going to stop any potential disaster.

Main course forgotten, he moves on to digging something out from inside one of the many cupboards.  “Be a dear and cut this for me, will you?”  He hands you a delicate peach before heading to the tea pot, stirring the contents and adding what must be a priceless amount of honey.

The peach in your hand is overripe but still vibrant–amazing, as you haven’t seen fresh fruit at all since you came to Eridia.  Your mouth waters anew as you remember what led you here in the first place–your quest for a meal–and you’re almost tempted to take a bite, follow Vere’s advice and sink your teeth in.

“My, my.  I’m almost jealous.  I thought you only looked at me like that.”

Vere shushes the denial from your lips, bossing you around regarding how he wants the peach sliced before shooing you out of his way and finishing his remaining tea preparations,with the look of an artist at work.  The tea is a warm oolong color, made only more alluring once the infusion of peach is complete.

It’s refreshing, too, once Vere serves it to you over ice.

You can almost ignore the great plumes of smoke coming from the oven.

Vere cooks how others might enjoy a leisurely stroll. 

Which is to say, he seems to be having fun, but you’re not convinced he intends on really going anywhere.  Still, there’s a rhythm to it–a dance, though he leads you in expected loops and turns, changes the tune at a moment's notice.  He’ll get bored of the task at hand and find some new spice to peruse, demand you taste test an ingredient or give your opinion on a dizzying new flavor he’s concocted.

(He manages to convince you to sample a bit of cucumber soup from the cold box.  You retch, proclaiming it salty, downing another glass of delicious peach oolong–

“I can still taste it in the back of my throat…!”–and he cackles wildly.)

Thick locks of hair are falling out of his up-do by the time he’s satisfied, framing his face and bringing your attention, again to the inviting line of his clavicle.  He tosses his loose hair over his shoulder, preening.

The recipe book is basically ruined, and the pasta is null and void, but some of the fillets look mildly edible.  The artful garnish is beautiful, at least.  The kale and orange slices really bring out the crispy burnt bits.  Vere seems to enjoy plating the food a great deal, humming and rearranging and circling the display until he deems it arranged to perfection.

He’s elegant when he takes a bite, biting down with a crunch.  His tail goes very still for a moment, then shivers microscopically as he chews.  He swallows in a manner that you can only describe as dignified, dabbing his lips with a napkin.  You wait in anticipation, but Vere says nothing for a long time.  Then, he quietly takes the old recipe book and throws it away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t insist on you trying it too.

You end up snacking on some of the pre-made goods, drinking the remaining tea and lounging at one of the shop’s cozy little tables.  The mood is light and easy, and the view is magnificent.  Outside, there’s nothing but trash littered streets and urchins, but inside…the afternoon glow coming from the window illuminates Vere like a sunset, painting him in dazzling shades of gold and red and bronze.

Vere hums, peering at you pointedly through his sooty lashes.  “So, dessert?”

You can’t imagine the look that comes across your face–whatever it is, it makes Vere laugh.

“What are you giving me that look for?  My intentions are pure.” His voice is a masterclass in syrupy false-innocence.  “As clean as Leander’s bed sheets after–”

“Please don’t finish that sentence and give me any mental images,” you beg.  “I have to sleep there tonight, I’d rather not know.”

“Ignorance is bliss.”  Vere agrees, closing his eyes and appearing to bask in the sun for a moment.  His face does something that you don’t quite catch–some hidden expression–but then, he’s smiling easily.  He must really be relaxed if he can still smile seconds after thinking about Leander.  You’re still admiring him when the shadows against the walls flicker, and suddenly he isn’t sitting next to you any more.

Instead, he’s returning from the kitchen, a tray in hand.

He sets it down in front of you, revealing an assortment of strawberries and an ornate silver porringer of what appears to be melted chocolate.  Vere sets it down on the table, plucking the small dessert spoon from the chocolate once he’s seated across from you again.

“Occasionally, life does offer up something sweet to savor–only for those willing to go out and take it.”  His tongue darts out to lick the chocolate off the spoon in his hand.  He maintains eye contact as his tongue laves across the basin and–embarrassingly–you think you get a little lightheaded from the intensity with which your blood rushes to your face.  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell you that he know exactly where your mind has gone.

Setting the spoon down, Vere instead picks up a bare strawberry, leaning in closer to press it gently to your mouth.

The chocolate is overly bitter–a little burnt, perhaps, but you can’t find it in yourself to care when you’re tasting the remnants of it on Vere’s lips.

(Before leaving, you plop a few coins down on the counter as payment.  You brought enough to cover your food…but definitely not enough to cover the mess in the kitchen.  There’s really nothing you can do about that.  

You hope you don’t get blacklisted.  You’d like to come back next Monday.)

Hope you enjoyed if you made it this far! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[notyourjaem]

— pov: yeonjun is your boyfriend 𖤐

pairing: boyfriend!yeonjun x you!

genre: all fluff

warnings: none (except maybe delusion)

authors note: I had a bad case of yeonjun delusion/brain rot this morning so I sped wrote these thoughts and tried my best not to ramble :) enjoy babes.

see beomgyu’s version here!

—

boyfriend!yeonjun who always brings a spare pair of headphones whenever you both go on a trip, just in case you forget yours.

boyfriend!yeonjun who knows what kind of ramen is your most favorite and knows exactly how to make it the way you like it. with all the toppings. <3

boyfriend!yeonjun who loves to take pictures of you. he’s the definition of “instagram boyfriend” the way he captures all of your angles and takes multiple shots so that you can choose what one to post. you always return the favor.

boyfriend!yeonjun loves when you borrow his clothes without him knowing about it, then sees you post on Instagram with it on. might ask for outfit credits though.

boyfriend!yeonjun who loves to watch you paint your nails and will sometimes ask to pick the color out. sometimes will even ask for you to paint his as well to match.

boyfriend!yeonjun always makes sure you’ve eaten, and had something to drink. if you say no, he’s buying you something right away.

boyfriend!yeonjun who finds the comfiest place to lay his head to be your lap. whether you’re hanging out with his members as a group, or the both of you are watching a movie or something; his head is in your lap. He also loves when you play with his hair and comb your fingers through it; he’ll even sometimes fall asleep like this.

boyfriend!yeonjun loves to help you cook. even when you tell him you don’t need or want any help, he finds it funny when you eventually cave In and ask for his help when you can’t do too many things at once.

boyfriend!yeonjun who loves to go makeup shopping with you. he lets you swatch things on him and sometimes wants you to test longevity of products by kissing him. but how can you say no?

boyfriend!yeonjun who kisses you all over your face and squeezes you so so tight when he is proud of your accomplishments. I can imagine him being like this when you graduate from college and everyone’s trying to take pics and he’s just all over you in the most loving way <3

—

[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

Cardigan S (Pattern | Yarn | Thread)

I have officially cast on for this cardigan! Sleeve #1 (aka Swatch #3). The OG swatch I used size US 8 needles for both the pattern and the ribbing which is exactly what the pattern states but honestly I think my ribbing looks like dogwater. For Sleeve #1 I swapped to a US 6 for the ribbing and then on the increase row swapped back to US 8. The pattern also has you go directly from ribbing into pattern rows but I'm inserting a wrong side stockinette row for that increase/needle size up and we'll see how it looks.

My pocket swatch/Swatch #2/the one mostly covered up by my hand gave both good and bad news. In good news, 26 stitches is wide enough both for my hand and more importantly my cellphone. In bad news, it wants the pockets to only be five inches tall, and that is NOT enough for either my hand or my cellphone. Easy fix esp considering I plan on completely ignoring every single direction on how to make the pockets Except for the actual stitch count. More on that once I get the Second (and hopefully last) yarn I ordered for pockets.

I didn't realize but because of this shiny thread I'm going to have to knit both sleeves and the two front pieces one at a time.... Taking lots of notes for how many rows I do things in to hopefully match them well enough.

[comatosebunny09]

deep-fried | u. tengen

summary: he’s spoken to you in passing. friendly greetings and excuse me’s when he bumped into you at the grocery store. he can’t deny entertaining the thought of how soft your hips must feel. how cute you must sound, tongue curling around his name. genre: modern au, romance cw: mentions of alcohol, language, black female reader, suggestive themes, stream of consciousness, incomplete

Darkness swaddles him as the wind howls beyond the confines of his truck.

It’s quiet inside, save for the lazy purr of his Ram and the melancholy music spilling from his speaker. His grip on the steering wheel is lax as he creeps through his drowsy neighborhood, headlights shining off windows shut tight. 

The clock on his display reads 10:37. Another night spent rotting away in his office. He rolls out the kinks in his neck. Exhaustion leaks down his shoulders, curling around his bones and puddling at his feet.

The day wasn’t kind to him. He spent it in and out of meetings. Deals fell through. Clients were no-shows. He had to lay off a few of his strongest employees at the urging of his superiors to compensate for the company's financial imbalance.

All he wants now is a stiff one and the chilly clutch of his bed. Just wants to throw this week in the backseat along with his briefcase. Maybe he’ll scrounge up some three-day-old stir fry from his fridge before he hits the sheets.

But then it’s there, burning in his peripheral when he rounds the corner: orange and blue flames dancing in the wintry gale. Golden swatches of light bounce off your features, highlighting the smile rounding your lips. 

“What the...fuck?” Tengen rasps. He rolls the window down halfway and turns his music to a dull murmur. Slows to a stop, brakes squealing. He props his arm on the steering wheel. Your chuckle follows. Warm milk and honey to his ears. He finds your smile infectious, his own canting his lips.

“Howdy, neighbor!” Your voice is husky. Flirtatious even. You sit on your cozy outdoor sectional with a bottle gleaming in your fingers, raised to him in greeting. The breeze carries the oaky scent from your fire pit, reminding him of log cabins and days spent amid the snow.

“What’s this all about?” he asks, chin nestled in his palm. Surprised by how easy it is to skip formalities with you like he’s talking to an old friend. He’s not enamored. There’s no way. 

He’s spoken to you in passing. Friendly greetings and excuse me’s when he bumped into you at the grocery store. Simple conversations after running into each other at the gym. He can’t deny entertaining the thought of how soft your body must feel, though. How cute you must sound, tongue curling around his name in that Southern twang.

You stand, thighs thick even beneath the slouched fleece of your sweats. Throw your arms up, your sweater flashing a slither of smooth, dusky skin. His mouth waters. It takes all of him not to bite his lip.

“Shoooot! I made it through another week!” Your grin is lopsided as you rock to the mellow tunes flowing from your speaker. He falls deeper into your web, chuckling. He’s envious of your carefree nature. Wishes he could bottle it up for use on a rainy day. “Care to join me?”

The offer is tempting. Sure, Tengen planned to drink himself into a stupor. But your body language beckons him, and your finger curls in a come hither gesture while you dance like a tipsy fool. 

Fuck it. He could use a little respite.

His reply comes as easy as breathing in and out. “Gimme a sec to get out of this monkey suit, and I’ll see how I feel afterward.”

You giggle. Do an accomplished jig around the fire. Tengen can’t help but laugh as he slides off. You’re adorable in your own right. 

Excitement wriggles into his fingers as he slides into his driveway. Soon after, he slips into his house, toeing his loafers off by the door. Shimmies out of his coat, making a beeline for the shower, blood pulsing in his ears.

He carries the aroma of rosewood and smoke with him when he sidles up to your patio 30 minutes later. 

Tries to play it cool, hands shoved in his pockets, though his chest is afire. Pretty thing like you hankering for his company. He should be so lucky.

“Drink?” you offer, your tone heavy with inebriation.

Corona. He’s not the biggest fan. Prefers the sting of something sour, but he accepts it on his way down onto the cushion beside you, anyway. Tengen sits back in an easy slouch, draping his arm across the headrest. His rings clack against the glass as he brings the bottle to his lips, condensation dripping onto his turtleneck.

For a while, nothing but the sounds associated with nighttime fill the space between you. The fire pops and fizzes. Crickets chitter in the distance. Trees shiver in the breeze. A dog or two barks somewhere far off. Tengen falls prey to the inner workings of his mind before rustling fabric brings him back to the present.

“What's wrong, suga?”

His gaze drifts to you, angled towards him. Your vibe is maternal despite the distilled wheat wafting off your breath. Must be that Southern hospitality everyone talks about. He sighs with a drop of his shoulders, taking another swig. “Just another day at the office.”

“Wanna talk about it?” You lean closer. Fill his nose with the fragrance of cracked vanilla beans, heat rolling off you in waves. He finds himself disarmed around you. Nerves flare when your tiny fingers brand his quad, scorching him to the bone.

“Not really,” Tengen husks, lost in the idle stir of your eyes. He feels like he could tell you everything. But for now, he’s content with soaking up your presence. Hasn’t had a lady friend for some time now, having fully embraced bachelorhood.

“That’s alright.” Give his thigh a squeeze, irises twinkling with something indiscernible. The shadows cast by the fire shroud your intentions. “Just know that whatever storm you’re weatherin’ is temporary. ‘sides, it’s the weekend! It’s time to turn up!”

He chortles at how quickly the mood shifts. At your goofy little dance, taking another sip of his beer. His hand engulfs yours atop his thigh, entranced by the smoothness of it. He could get used to this. Get used to you.

The air feels lighter now. It’s easy to slide into meaningful conversation, throwing back a few more beers as the night eases into the wee hours of the morning.

At some point, he finds himself nestled in the plushness of your sofa inside.

The lights are turned off, the only illumination coming from the silvery moon peeking through your blinds. Sultry jazz tinges the air, chorusing with soft giggles and husky praise. A sheen of desire hangs overhead, intermingled with the smell of firewood clinging to your clothes.   

Your thighs are tender in his hands. Doughy like he knew they would be, framing his hips. Your fingers make an unhurried excursion to the hair at his nape as your lips brand his carotid. His responding chuckle is breathless, disbelieving. Vibrates your chest, your breasts warm against the hard press of his torso.

He's grinning like a fool, lids heavy. Can't help mulling over what brought you to this point as his hands engulf the dips of your hips. Sucks his lip between his teeth, his voice a low gravel as you bear down on the apex of his thighs.

[lightnersdream]

i got no drawing done today bc i was busy and no I'm tired everytging is so unfair

[poisoned-pearls]

vomiting out the brain mush rotting in my brain for days before i eep

azul has moles on his neck, his wrist, his upper arm n below his collarbone (two of them are ones i have, the other two are for funsies). he grew used to them overtime though he isn't particularly fond of them. jamil makes him feel better about them by constantly kissing those very spots silly, leaving a blushy blue mess that is azul every time.

after noticing that jamil has very faint freckles on his face, azul does the same thing jamil does w his moles. (though jamil is actually alright w his freckles, he still appreciates the kisses)

also, i hc azul as filipino (because i am) n his favorite terms of endearment are 'mahal' (love/expensive, the meaning depends on where you use it) & 'liyag' (darling)

ABSBWNSBSHSBSH YESSSSS. I LOVE the idea of Jamil turning Azul’s general suave back onto HIM and Azul having NO CLUE how to process it. Jamil gentlest grabbing his face and parts of his body to kiss his moles? Man is GONE. He does NOT know what to do. And blue blush Azul. Man is a mess. Jamil loves to tease him abt the blue (*holds up paint swatch* “this is the shade you turn when I kiss you” “SHUT UP-“)

and ahajshsnhsnsbsnshs freckled Jamil!! Ah that’d be so fun. Azul notices them one day and he LOCKS IN on them. Dude is obsessed. He can map them out. It’s been tested ace handed him paper he drew out all of them and later ace compared them at basketball practice and went “what the fuckkkkk” bc he’s correct.

also Nabsbsbahs I love Filipino Azul! The Azul I use most often is Japanese (like when referring to Nami, etc-) but AUGH those terms of endearment are SO correct. Man would absolutely call Jamil expensive (AS IN HES WORTH A LOT NOT THAT HE COSTS Azul A LOT-) and AUGH. Azul is a classic little man. He likes his little romance tropes so any form of darling is correct

[eidysims]

Retro Rest and Sweet Sleeper. Beds to rot in. <3 I wanted a more cottage core-esque little bed set, and I am always always wanting more vintage beds, so here we are. Retro Rest has some fabric swatches from the 20s-70s, Sweet Sleeper is lots of cute florals and animals and sweet things. More below!

Poor quality gif to show you most of the swatches. Retro Rest: DL SFS, Horse Ranch Required Sweet Sleeper: DL SFS, Discover University Required Enjoy <3

[cor-lapis-candy]

So there is a very very talented artist on Instagram under the name daione.sith (100% look at their stuff! And of you have the money their patreon cause !!!! The NSFW versions!) And they have a demon Diluc drawing and good lord has it given me an idea.

So here I come like some kind of goblin out of my lil cave of Minecraft and grinding to give you this.

This piece doesn't really need a CW or a TW to my knowledge, but if religious themes or anything to do with possessive themes makes you umcomfy maybe don't read this one!

Have you ever seen the Anemo Archons cathedral in the afternoon?

Rays of golden light transformed into halos of gold and blue, green specks filling gaps between pure white streaks, the air filled with specks of dust that drift and paint the cracks between each colour stained display of devotion. Candles of every kind, pillars and tealights, long burning towers of wax that are lit day in and day out, melting and painting old stained wood with pools of faded whites and yellows, all long since forgotten and uncleaned after their purpose had been served.

There is piety in the air and whispered hymns on the lips of every soul that passes through those doors, heads bowed and hands offered in prayer and open devotion, and yet one resounding set of steps is all it takes to taint and defile, the solid click after click of his shoes against polished tile is a simple rhythm that sinks sin into the very stone foundations of the cathedral, a rot of domination seeping into the roots and curling around the heart of the church of freedom.

A demon in only your mind alone, and a saint in all others eyes, the uncrowned king and deep shadow across your devotion looms over you, standing as he always does, clothed in his jacket and hands ringed in simple yet daunting steel rings, lips moving through mockeries of prayer after prayer as the air fills with thick incense.

The censer by your side long since burnt out, a centerpiece to the flowing wreaths and displays of devotion through fruit and wine, the ash that falls and spills from the gaps tells of age and endless nights in the fogs of devotion and prayers that the red haired man that has come to curl around your back would disappear from your side, that 'The Diluc Ragnvindr' would turn those crimson eyes from you and find some other lamb to lead a stray, and yet again you feel the heat of his gloves drag across your arms, his hands pulling you backwards into the broad expanse of his chest.

The scent of incense is overpowered but the smell of oak, wine and something burnt, like the after scent of a fireplace or boiler pit, it smelt like iron and ash.

You know what lies under the heavy finery, that the moment you step out of these hallowed halls and step over the threshold of your home there is no archon or divine grace to save you, red hair will give way to arching horns and draping layers with loosen and fall away to leave the defined lines and markings of his true nature bare.

A sight many women and men would kill for will lay bare and inviting on your bed, legs spread with one hand lazily pumping his length. Fingers dragging the small trail of pre further down and making the ridges and inhuman shape all that more prominent, black trails that swirl across his hips and up around his chest, for something so inhuman he plays the role well, a thick swatch of red hair covers his chest and leads wispily down his stomach.

The deep red of his hair mats itself with sweat and other evidence of your entanglement, something of both his and your own, and yet it's not a matter of when you would give in but how.

Some Days he would catch you before you got into the cathedral, other day, ones much like this one, he would cradle you through your last prayers and escort you home, making you a sight of envy for all those that would catch sight of the two of you, and oh how people would see. The route he would make you take winds the many main streets and side roads, every set of envying eyes would watch as his gloves hands dug into your hips, how he let you push against him and made him chuckle.

The sound mistaken for mirth when really it was nothing but condescension.

Whatever his end goal was, Diluc Ragnvindr was working his way into your heart and head, somedays all it took was a flash of the fiery red of his hair and you would be wound up expecting those heavy hands and ash laiden words to coax you off your beaten path and into the dark of some ally for a quick moment of hushed breaths and shape teeth digging into whatever skin you had exposed or could be exposed.

But here in your home as he lays back, horns ripping through the plush pillow you had bought not a day before, red tipped claws digging into the soft skin of your hips and dragging you further and further down his cock making the finale ridge of something just shy of to big, to wide, too much for you, press against your opening as he huff out a laugh.

Today he would take you wholly, leave you gasping and open mouthed as he sunk that finale but of himself into you, stained you inside and out with himself, marks of theet and hands mean nothing to how he will know that he finally came in you, finally painted your inside with his spend.

How glorious it will be the day he gets you watch you stumble back from that cathedral to his winery, to drape yourself across his lap and grasp at the base of his horns and beg for him, true devotion to him, true adoration and nothing but from you, to him would be the icing on this long overdue cake.

For now though he will enjoy the fucked out and watery eyes stare from you as he pushes you that little bit further down his cock, bottoming out and drawing a deep gasp from your lips.

For now this will do…

[direwombat]

tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton (tysm~!)

tagging @trench-rot, @cassietrn, @strangefable, @voidika, @madparadoxum, @adelaidedrubman, @aceghosts, @josephslittledeputy, @inafieldofdaisies, @g0dspeeed, @simplegenius042, @miyabilicious, @strafethesesinners, @confidentandgood, @jillvalentinesday, @poetikat, and anyone else with something to share! (to be added/removed from the taglist, please like/unlike this post here!)

once again i am bringing you some werewolf au, first a bit of syb just trying so hard to do her job, and another snippet from jacob's pov of him continuing to be a violent and possessive creep <3 (also just for context, at the start of the first snippet, they're talking about renovations being done to st francis.

“Quite the project you’ve got goin’ here,” she remarks. “How long’ve’ya been workin’ on the place?”

“Couple months,” he answers, but doesn’t offer anything further. 

Jesus, this is gonna be like pullin’ teeth, ain’t it? So, she tries again. “Y’all’ve worked fast,” she hums, pointedly admiring the work done and emphasizing her awe -- give his ego a little stroke. “Good craftsmanship too, by the look of it. Think you’ll finish it all before winter?”

He tilts his chin up, puffing his chest out -- preening ever so slightly at her words. Yeah, that’s what I thought, she thinks. 

“That’s the goal,” he nods. 

But, once again, he doesn’t volunteer any more information. So, she presses once more. “What’re ya gonna do with it once it’s done?”

He pulls to an abrupt stop outside a set of french doors and gives her a stern look and folds his arms over his chest. “Is this pertinent to your investigation, Deputy?”

She blinks, taken a bit back. “Well, no --” 

“Then I’m not obligated to answer that.” He grasps the door’s handle, pushes it open, and steps inside. 

Sybille narrows her eyes, focusing on the point on his back where his shoulder blades meet. “You realize that makes you sound suspicious,” she says evenly, and she follows him into a large office. The walls are covered in renovation plans -- blueprints, schematics, and various paint swatches cover every last inch. Even more documents and plans lay scattered across the desk, and tucked away in the corner is a small cot. The bed has been made, the corners of the worn green blanket are tucked neatly at the corners. Army regulation.

Wonder if he slept here last night?

“And you realize you can’t do a damn thing about it,” he says shortly. “Private property is private property, Deputy. What we do here is our business.” He strides over to the desk and fishes a ring of keys out from one of the top drawers. “Now, if you have any questions that are actually relevant to your investigation, I’d be happy to answer them. You and I both have more important things to do than engage in chit-chat.”Giving the bulk of the keys a little flip around where his finger is hooked through the ring, he walks back over to her and gestures to the door. “After you.” 

Were she a smaller or less hardened woman, she might have been cowed by how he towers over her. There are some people who intimidate as easily as they breathe, and it’s become clear to her that Jacob Seed is just That Kind of man. Even his “after you,” a phrase and gesture that’s so becoming of a Southern Gentleman from Georgia, hides within it a direct order. A command she is expected to obey, lest she break the social parlance.

It’s not a fight worth having, so she nods and shuffles out of the office. The door clicks shut behind the two of them, and they begin walking back towards the courtyard. 

“So,” she tries again, once again falling in step beside him, “how late were you here last night?”

“All night,” he grunts. 

So, he did sleep here last night. “Anyone else with you?” To confirm your alibi? She doesn’t say. 

“No.” 

“You hear anything strange last night?” 

“No,” he repeats. 

She frowns. “What about any wolves howlin’?” 

He glances down at her from the corner of his eye and snorts. “This is wolf country, Deputy. I hear wolves around here nightly. It’d be strange if I didn’t hear them howling.”

“How about screamin’? Or gunshots goin’ off?”

“Do you know what a mountain lion sounds like, Deputy?” Jacob asks. 

“Pardon?”

“If you don’t know what you’re hearing, the call of a mountain lion sounds a lot like a human scream. Most accounts of people claiming a forest is haunted because they heard shrieking, are just people hearing mountain lions,” he explains dismissively. 

“Fascinating,” she answers flatly. “Doesn’t answer my question, though.” 

He sighs heavily, as if frustrated that his half-assed question for an answer wasn’t satisfactory to her. “No, Deputy. I didn’t hear any screaming or gunshots last night.” 

and a bonus jakey pov of him continuing to be creepy <;e3

As tempted as he is to give the Deputy the run around -- to see just how fast and far she’d run to catch him -- she doesn’t give him the option to. Her cruiser’s front bumper never strays more than a few feet of his own back one, making it explicitly clear that she isn’t just going to let him take off with the beast currently held on the bed of his truck. 

Besides, after smelling the shift in her scent when he picked the Feral up and carried it to his truck, he decided that playing nice, at least for the time being, would give him what he wants. The quickening of her pulse and the sweet, albeit suppressed smell of her arousal at his display of strength told him everything he needed to know. She’ll deny it -- loyal women like her always will -- but there’s a part of her that’s drawn to him. 

She likes that he’s strong. 

Picking up a dead body is nothing, his Wolf salivates. Let her see what we could do to Eli. Show her how strong we really are.

His grip around the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles turn white and he glances at his rear-view mirror. She’s driving with one hand on the wheel while her other arm is draped through her open window, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Do it, the Wolf urges. We know where he lives. We can end this little problem right now. His fingers move of their own accord and he barely catches himself before subconsciously flipping his signal to turn back north. 

No, he barks back. She’s human and has human sensibilities. She wouldn’t react to the normal mating rituals the same way a fellow werewolf would. He needs to be patient. Careful. If he’s going to pursue her, he has to treat it more akin to a hunt, rather than a courtship. He needs to lure her out; get her to trust him so that when she gets injured or frightened she comes running to him rather than Eli -- he needs to prove to her that he can protect and provide for her. 

It isn’t enough to force her to be his. He needs her to choose him over Eli. Her submission to him needs to be voluntary. That way, when he finally does destroy the Hunter, he’ll do it in every way conceivable. He’ll break his spirit first, then his body. Maybe he’ll claim her in front of him. Just to see the betrayed look in his eyes when Jacob kills the love he thought he had. Just to make him hear how his dear, sweet Deputy howls like a bitch in heat, begging him to bury his knot inside her cunt and fill her with his pups.

Eli Palmer will die a humiliated and broken man.

His Wolf makes a low, pleased growl and is placated by the thought. Fine. The sheep suit can stay on, for now.

[silversiren1101]

A Matter of Trust

So fixated on tending to her tail—preening those feathers that'd come loose, polishing her scales lustrous, and brushing both to a brightness—that he hadn't noticed at all.

A gentle breathing sounds from behind him now. Rhythmic. Peaceful. Her tail still lays across his lap, patient under his care, yet, he turns and confirms what he's already realized: Minovae has fallen asleep. Eyes closed lightly—not scrunched in the way of worry or nightmare or pain—she looks comfortably at ease in a way he's come to prize knowing what's plagued her restless nights since coming to share a bed together. That easy breathing whistles from between parted lips, almost inaudible, which themselves reveal the tips of her upper fangs, and firelight from the hearth dances across her scales, the motes of flame seeming to emanate from those pale greenish depth. Regill can't help but think her gorgeous—though he does often anyway, even without the peaceful sight and warm lighting.

A sight which makes him pause in his almost meditative care.

That she'd fallen asleep in the middle of her reports—of which she has, for the report that'd been in her hand now lies across her chest and is at threat of a wayward glob of drool dripping upon it—strikes him. It isn't just that it'd happened in the middle of her work, no, but in the middle of this... he strokes her tail down the feather ridge. It only slightly shifts in response, like she herself would murmur if he were to touch her cheek or brush those strands of wayward platinum from her face.

Comfort. Security. Safety. Trust.

His thoughts flash with unwelcome reminders of what he'd seen in her Dreamscape, that realm of all her life's torments as he resumes brushing—there's only a short stretch left. He sees a butcher's blade in a cruel crone's hand brought down on this tail's base, then belonging to a young girl, so brave and yet stricken with a fear most adults have never suffered. He sees it run over by a wagon cart and the bones crunching after she'd refused to join one of the gang's in Westcrowns shadowed alleys. He sees ghouls bite into it and rake their claws down its length, taunting her that they would fall out rotten soon enough when she became one of them.

He himself remembers watching helpless, yet in awe and horror both, as she brings her hammer down atop her shield poised over it to sever where the osyluth's venomous stinger had bit deep into its flesh; all to buy her just a little more time. He recalls the handful of other times she'd lost it during the Civil War, and how she'd gone back for it only to recover the valuable blackened plate armor from its ridge. Decades later, he remembers the shrill voice of Camellia Gwerm, calling the naturally shed feathers that'd gotten mixed up into her belongings filthy and dumping them into Minovae's lap during breakfast that one time, and how sparse her tail feathers had looked when next he'd seen her that day, so stressfully preened and brushed she'd torn some right out. And then he remembers it tinted Abyssal purple, laden with corruption as her ganzi blood hadn't been able to fight back the foul air there; and after that, covered in sores and stretches of rot and pus where swatches of those corrupted scales had peeled off, leaving the tender flesh beneath sick and exposed.

It's grown back every time. It always heals. No blemish lasts for long. Not even scars remain from what it's all been through.

It doesn't undo all that's been done to it. What scars it should have run spirit deep, haunting her in the night and in every interaction with someone she has yet to trust, waiting for the hurt to come.

That it doesn't leap from his lap is a wonder in and of itself, he knows. As friendly as she is with others, giving playful touches and swats, they're merely fleeting things. He's seen the discomfort when it's grabbed or stared at overly long; how she's always reassured anyone looking to heal it because 'it'll heal on its own, don't worry, focus on everyone else.'

It lays across his lap, a patient and trusting beast beneath his now trained hands, which brush and clean and polish and preen just as she'd taught him to do because he'd asked, of his own volition, how to make her routine just a little bit easier for her... because he wanted to care for her in this way he knew no one else ever had... to show her with action how he loved her, because he ever worried that his own means until then had not been enough to keep her reassured.

And for his efforts, she now sleeps, so at ease and peace.

He's seldom been more pleased.